


Forgiveness

by aslytherspuff



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Post-War, Romance, past Draco/Blaise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-19 08:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22407853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aslytherspuff/pseuds/aslytherspuff
Summary: Draco POV.Eighth Year AU.As the only ex-Death Eater to return to Hogwarts, and with his father in Azkaban and his mother in St. Mungo's, Draco is struggling to find his feet after the war.  But forgiveness can come from the most unlikely of places.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Blaise Zabini, Draco Malfoy/Blaise Zabini/Ginny Weasley, Draco Malfoy/Ginny Weasley, Ginny Weasley/Blaise Zabini
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	1. The Hogwarts Express

**NINETEEN-NINETY-SIX**

The train to Hogwarts that year was a very different experience to the one Draco had become accustomed to. Following his father's painfully public humiliation being bested by mere _children_ in June, the Wizarding World's opinion of the name of Malfoy had fallen so low he was practically a Weasley.

He'd handed – more aptly, thrown – his Prefect badge back to Snape on one of the pompous idiot's visits to  _his_ home, though no one seemed to care about that any more. The Dark Lord was playing house in  _his_ Manor, hosting all manner of filthy cretins like Greyback and sycophantic believers like Pettigrew and the Seniors Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle. And Snape. Snape who was now Death Eater  _numero uno_ , despite his rather blatant loyalty to the bearded bastard. His only value was faulty information and a vague talent for Potions and spellcrafting. Draco, in a few years time, felt sure he would surpass Severus in both fields, and the Dark Lord would have no need for him. He only hoped that he could get there before the slimy git threw them to the dogs and got them all locked away in Azkaban.

He had temporarily lost the influence and power necessary to remain a Prefect in Slytherin; that honour had been handed to Theo Nott, who's father was still a revered member of the Inner Circle. Clearly, he didn't hold the influence or power necessary to be considered of import by Horace Slughorn, either. The man was bumbling, fame-hungry, and entirely useless at brewing, but he seemed to have a knack for putting himself in the pockets of the powerful. His father and mother had both been part of his little “club” at school; Father had recounted the story many times to Draco as a child of how he had fallen in love with Mother during one of Slughorn's ostentatious Yuletide celebrations. Draco had hoped for one, useless moment when he heard of his return that he might also be invited into the club; it had seemed only right that he would meet his future wife in the same way as his parents met and fell in love. But that brief moment of childish romanticism had been burned away when he was called upon to serve the Dark Lord in his father's absence. Truly, he believed even Saint Potter might outlive him at this point. He was under no illusions: this task was designed for failure. He did not intend to fail, not at all. He had intentions of finding a way to succeed and to restore power and influence to the Malfoy name. He was just a realist when it came to his chances against the most powerful wizard currently in existence – and Dumbledore  _was_ the most powerful wizard; if he wasn't, the Dark Lord would not be so desperate for his demise.

Blaise finally returned from  _his_ lunch with Slughorn – apparently, having a murderess for a mother was excusable, but a murderer for a father was not – and Draco watched a flash of Muggle shoe fly across the compartment. Potter.

He'd hoped to avoid the irritant completely this year. Draco knew he would need to keep his focus on his task, and Potter should be concentrated on trying to bring down the Dark Lord; they would both be better off to just leave one another well enough alone. Apparently, though, Potter had yet to grow up enough to realise that Draco was far from his enemy. They were firmly on opposite sides of the war, that much was true, but Potter had far bigger and scarier enemies than Draco Malfoy.

“So, Zabini,” Draco said, blandly, as he stretched himself out across the seats. “What did Slughorn want?”

It was best to appear to be disinterested and uninformed at all times, unless he was being disinterested and condescending. That way, there were no weaknesses for Potter  _or_ his fellow Slytherins to exploit.

Pansy ran her hands through his hair, flawlessly playing the role of dutiful girlfriend despite their relationship ending several weeks ago. He knew she had seen the shoe as well, and was ready to put on whatever show Potter was here to see.

“Just trying to make up to well-connected people,” Blaise said, haughtily, and Draco fought the urge to roll his eyes. It wouldn't do for Potter to see the cracks in their foundations. Regardless, Blaise seemed to sense his anger, and quickly added, “not that he managed to find many,” in an almost conciliatory tone. It didn't suit him one bit.

“Who else had he invited?”

Blaise wrinkled his nose. “McLaggen from Gryffindor.”

“Oh, yeah, his uncle's big at the Ministry,” Draco drawled. His vaults were not nearly as deep as even Draco's alone, but he was a smarmy git with no public connections to 'the wrong side' of the war which, unfortunately, was all the current Minister seemed to care about.

“– someone else called Belby, from Ravenclaw –”

Belby was no doubt there due to his connection with a second-rate Potions Master that Slughorn would likely think of as some kind of god. Slughorn had a massively inflated sense of self, so anyone passably better than him at something was instantly revered as some kind of prodigy. Though, funnily enough, that had never extended to Snape, and now, it seemed, didn't extend to Draco, either.

“– and Longbottom, Potter, and the Weasley girl,” Blaise finished, disinterestedly studying his nails.

“He invited  _Longbottom_ ?”

Clearly, the old man was losing his touch in his dotage. Potter was, of course, The Boy Who Lived with vaults to rival the Malfoys' after the death of Sirius Black added to them substantially. His mother was still seething over that; as surviving Blacks by blood, the vaults should have gone to her and Bellatrix, or even Draco, but it seemed that dear, departed Cygnus Black had tried to be clever. In the marriage contracts he had drawn up for his two youngest daughters, he had written in a binding clause that stated they – and any of their children who were named heirs to other houses – would have no access to the Black Family vaults. Now, thanks to his greed, only half-blood Potter and blood-traitor Tonks had access to vaults that had been kept within the Ancient and Noble House of Black for centuries.

“Well, I assume so, as Longbottom was there,” Blaise said, a hint of warning in his tone letting Draco know he'd noticed him losing focus on the current conversation. Blaise was the only one who had ever been able to see through him, but that would not be allowed to continue, especially as Blaise's loyalties were, at best, an unknown quantity.

“What's Longbottom got to interest Slughorn?”

Blaise shrugged. His lack of a verbal reply suggested he knew exactly what Longbottom had but was not willing to share his information. Information, after all, was a currency every bit as powerful as gold.

“And the Weasley girl?” Draco demanded. “What's so special about  _her_ ?”

“A lot of boys like her,” Pansy said, carefully, and Draco knew she meant Potter, who was sickeningly in love with his own mother's look-alike. Then a nasty little smirk crossed her lips. “Even you think she's good looking, don't you, Blaise, and we all know how hard you are to please.”

A muscle under Blaise's eye twitched. “I wouldn't touch a filthy little blood traitor like her whatever she looked like,” he said, coldly, and every single word was a lie. Zabini was no longer neutral in this war. Draco felt pain tear through his heart before he Occluded it away; he would have to separate himself from his best friend for both of their sakes.

His mask carefully back in place, Draco resumed his position sprawled elegantly across the seats, and could only hope Potter hadn't noticed the cavernous cracks in their foundations.

~*~*~*~

Crabbe and Goyle were still scoffing food in the Great Hall, and Nott was on Prefect Patrol, leaving Blaise and Draco alone in the dorms. Things had been uncomfortable between them for several weeks, now, and Draco was sure he knew why, but had no plans to address it. He had better things to do that make nice with someone who had chosen their bed and now had to lie in it.

“He marked you.”

Draco refused to let the surprise show on his face. He hadn't expected Blaise to pluck up the courage to confront him for weeks, yet.

“Obviously,” he replied, in a passable imitation of Snape. He had tried to embody the man's impenetrable, prickly exterior this year; it would have served as an armour against the nastier opinions that surrounded him, and would have kept people from questioning him. But he could never be quite as caustic and surly as the traitorous Death Eater. Instead, he had wrapped himself in Occlumency shields that served as a stone dam to his emotions; while the dam held, he was emotionless and efficient. When it broke, the pain hit him in waves so destructive he knew they'd one day tear him apart. Losing Pansy had been easy; he had assumed that losing Blaise would be similarly so. After all, what were a couple of friends compared to the life of his mother and reputation of his family name?

He had been horribly, terribly wrong.

Losing Blaise had torn a hole in him like nothing he had ever known. He would rather receive the Mark a hundred times than suffer the daily pain of seeing Blaise and knowing that he was lost to him forever.

“I figured He would. With your father and all.”

Draco raised an eyebrow coolly. “Your powers of deduction astound me, Zabini.”

Blaise sneered and sauntered across the dorm to throw himself down onto Draco's neatly-made bed. Draco flinched as he remembered other times Blaise had done this. Other times they had been alone in the dorms. Other times before the Dark Lord had Marked him and given him a task that would likely ruin everything. Blaise kicked his shoe-covered feet up onto the blanket and folded his hands behind his head. He looked like he belonged there. Draco wanted him to belong there, and that traitorous thought alone flooded him with white-hot anger. As if sensing Draco's growing rage, he smirked. “Y'know, blood-traitor or not, Ginevra is still a Pureblood,” he said, casually.

“Please tell me you're not still stuck on the She-Weasel,” Draco sneered. At least in this, he could pretend his reaction was disgust rather than jealousy.

Besides, in the current climate, any Slytherin dating a Gryffindor would be nothing short of suicidal. For someone as well-known as Blaise to date an infamous blood-traitor and love-interest of The Boy Who Lived... Draco shuddered to think of what the Dark Lord might order him to do to bring Blaise back into the fold, else he be disposed of.

Blaise shrugged nonchalantly. “Thought a taste would get her out of my system,” he drawled. “Turns out she's addictive.”

Draco slammed his Occlumency shields down so hard his vision blurred. “Don't,” he spat. “Don't ever mention her in my presence again.”

His Occlumency was good, but it was no match for the Dark Lord. If He decided to go searching, Draco would not be able to protect his best friend's secret. Or his own secret. It was safer for both of them that Blaise assume Draco was merely a prejudiced blood supremacist, disgusted by the mere idea of shacking up with a Weasley. Besides, when he failed his task, Blaise would have nothing to mourn if he'd already renounced Draco's friendship.

** OCTOBER NINETEEN-NINETY-EIGHT **

Draco didn't know why he'd allowed McGonagall to talk him into returning to Hogwarts, even if it meant reducing his sentence. He'd have been better off making his peace with five years of house arrest, getting comfortable in his suites at the Manor, and staying well away from Wizarding Society until the horror of the past two years had faded slightly from public consciousness.

Instead, the War was barely five months behind them and he, a marked Death Eater – albeit not a very good one –, was boldly waltzing around a school alongside children who had lost parents and siblings and friends at the hands of those he'd so proudly appeared to support just months ago. The jinxes and hexes and nasty whispers in corridors, he could endure. He deserved them. But seeing the pain in the eyes of those who had lost the most tested his resolve on a daily basis. He was not a cruel man, and he never had been. Cold, arrogant, weak, cowardly, selfish... Yes, he'd been all those things. But never cruel, never evil. His Cruciatus Curses against fellow students had been faked, and when they could not be faked, they had been weak. He'd never once reported a student out of bed or a member of Potter's “Army”. He'd lied and manipulated and protected them in every way he could. But it hadn't been enough. Because they had been prepared to risk – they had risked and, in some cases,  _lost_ – their own lives. He had not. He had put his own survival first, his mother's second, everyone else's third. And that was why people like Potter and Longbottom were heroes, and he was a villain.

He kept his head down as he made his way up the stairs and down the dark, stone corridors to the eighth year dormitories. He and Blaise were sharing a room; they had been the only Slytherins to return to Hogwarts. Pansy and Daphne Greengrass had gone to Beauxbatons. Greg had gone to Durmstrang. Vince was dead. None of the other returning students had wanted to share with a Death Eater, much to no one's surprise.

The room had been set up with three bedrooms around a small communal area; the third bedroom should have been for Theo but, unlike Draco, he had decided to accept his house arrest sentence instead of returning to Hogwarts. He always had been smarter than Draco. He'd played his cards far more carefully and kept his hands far cleaner, though having a father in the Inner Circle had helped him significantly. It was  _personas non grata_ like the Malfoys who were expected to do the dirty work.

He arrived at his dorm and walked straight into the second complication in his life. Ginny Weasley. She smirked and patted his arm. “Watch where you're going, Malfoy,” she said, though her tone contained none of the vitriol that he was used to.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, automatically. The word had been entirely absent from his vocabulary for nearly eighteen years; this year, he appeared to be catching up on all those missed years plus interest.

She smiled, then brushed past him and out the door, shutting it behind her.

“Blaise!” he yelled, as soon as he was sure that Ginny was out of earshot, “what have I told you about shagging her in  _our_ dorm?”

Blaise appeared in the doorway to his room wearing nothing but a pair of briefs, and Draco immediately glued his eyes to a smooth section of stone wall. “To let you join in?” he suggested cheekily, a broad grin spreading across his face in Draco's peripheral vision.

Draco forced a sneer onto his face though, from Blaise's reaction, it was unconvincing. After a nearly causing permanent damage to his mind with two years of constant Occlumency, Draco had been forbidden from using it in any form for at least a year. With the Dark Lord gone, he'd assumed it would be easy.

But then Blaise and Ginny had happened.

He'd always known Blaise was beautiful. He'd acknowledged it, accepted it,  _enjoyed_ it, and then placed it in the box with all the other things a Malfoy was not allowed to want. But, this year, Blaise had started dating Ginny. And he wanted to hate her, but she had been  _nice_ to him. Genuinely, consistently  _nice_ . And, sometimes, her waterfall of red hair did things to him he didn't understand. Her sarcasm made him laugh. Her laugh made him warm. And the two of them – both of them  _together_ – was something far too big to fit in his box. Not when Occlumency could cause him to lose his mind altogether.

“Sod off,” he eventually snarled, but Blaise's face flickered with the most awful, sickening,  _pitying_ understanding.

“Draco –”

But he was already doing what he did best: running away. He slammed his bedroom door behind him and hit it with every Light locking, privacy, warding, and repelling spell he knew. They would keep Blaise out for at least two hours. The Dark ones would have kept him out for ten, but they would have flagged up at the Ministry and landed him in Azkaban. And as badly as he wanted to hide from his own feelings, he didn't want to hide quite that badly. Not yet. Not while he had some semblance of control.

“Draco,” Blaise said, when he had disabled the silencing charms around Draco's room. Draco ignored him.

“I know you can hear me.”

“No, I can't,” he responded childishly as he glared at the ugly brown canopy over his bed. McGonagall had abolished Houses for the Eighth Years, so all of them had ugly brown rooms and plain black uniforms with garish purple ties. And House affiliations had all but been forgotten... unless you were a Slytherin. Once a Slytherin, always a Slytherin. Even for a 'good' Slytherin like Blaise.

Blaise chuckled warmly outside the door, and Draco's stomach flipped.

“You're adorable,” he said, softly, and Draco flinched. Blaise hadn't said that to him since fourth year. Things had been different, then. Sometimes, Draco wished he could go back to that year. To before the Dark Lord and 'familial duties' and the awful, black stain on his forearm.

“We need to talk about this.”

“About  _what_ ?”

“Whatever's got your wand in a knot.”

“There's no knot in my wand,” Draco snapped back, and Blaise snickered.

“I know. I've seen it.”

Draco slammed his pillow over his face and tried to drown out the sound of Blaise's voice. Hadn't he noticed how hard this was for him? How badly he was suffering? How he was trying to leave Blaise alone to his happiness with Ginny and stay well away from the both of them?

“Leave me alone.”

“You know I can't do that, Dray.”

The gentle sadness in Blaise's voice almost made it sound like he was talking about something else, something more than just the wards currently on Draco's door, and hot tears burned Draco's eyes as anger surged through his veins.

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” he roared, whipping his wand towards the door and casting several nasty repelling charms. He heard Blaise grunt and then whimper in pain, and he forced himself to smirk in satisfaction even as white-hot regret lanced through him. Hadn't the pain of pushing him away in Sixth Year been enough? Why should he be forced to endure it for a second time?

He yanked his bed hangings closed and undressed angrily; he felt a few seams give and a few buttons pop, but that would be a problem for another day. Still sobbing and furious, he swallowed a mouthful of Dreamless Sleep and fell asleep with distorted images of a much younger Blaise drifting behind his eyelids.

Cotton. Sage. Expensive tea. Draco breathed it in deeply, and couldn't bring himself to feel ashamed when a quiet whimper escaped. He'd thought he'd forgotten what Blaise smelled like, but this dream recalled it perfectly. Firm, gentle fingers carded through his hair and rubbed his scalp. Soft lips brushed softly against his forehead. Warm, even breaths puffed against his cheek. Every detail that had been so tantalisingly close, yet just out of reach, in his Occlumency-damaged mind was back in full force. The Dreamless Sleep hadn't worked but, for once, Draco was not disappointed. Salazar, he would never take Dreamless Sleep again if only for another chance to experience this dream. Dimly, he realised that the memory of this dream – or was this a dream of a memory? – would only make things so much harder when he had to face Blaise while awake, but in this moment, he didn't care. He gave himself over to the scent, the warmth, the sensations of the dream and let his burdens be lifted from him, if only for now. A small, contented smile formed on his lips as he felt himself begin to drift peacefully once more.

Light drifted in through the window and Draco closed his eyes more tightly against the unwelcome intrusion. The dream from last night still lingered in his senses, and he could still smell Blaise, still feel a phantom warmth against his back. He wasn't yet ready to wake up and lose the lingering feelings of peace and safety. He groaned and snuggled down further into his covers, further into the phantom warmth against his –  _Oh, fuck._ The 'phantom warmth' was something very, very solid. Something very solid, very warm, and  _breathing_ . 

“Morning, Draco,” a soft voice whispered in his ear and, heart stuttering erratically, Draco launched himself from the bed.

It wasn't until he was naked and staring down at a grinning, pyjama-clad Blaise that he realised his mistake. He snatched a robe off the floor and pulled it around himself, though it did little to conceal his morning erection. Blaise seemed unruffled by the entire affair, and rolled onto his back languidly.

“Well, I have to say,” he muttered, yawning widely, “I slept very well once I'd gotten through your wards. Nice modification to that repelling charm, by the way, even if it  _did_ break my wrist.”

Draco flinched slightly. He hadn't meant to cause Blaise that much damage.

Blaise shrugged. “I fixed it in about two seconds flat, but it did add something of a challenge to the proceedings.”

He tilted his head and looked at Draco searchingly. “How did you sleep?”

“Fine,” Draco replied, flatly. “I took Dreamless Sleep.”

Hurt flickered across Blaise's face and he made no attempt to conceal it. “Right.”

“What do you want, Blaise?” he asked, tiredly. He hadn't had the luxury of waking up beside Blaise since the end of fourth year, when they'd both decided that, with the Dark Lord's return, the risk was too great. Draco had taken up with Pansy, and Blaise had taken up with... Well, half of Hogwarts, to hear the rumours. And now Blaise had Ginny, who Draco was sure hadn't been enlightened as to their sordid past, and if she had been, would certainly not approve of her boyfriend's current occupation of his former lover's bed.

Blaise's brow furrowed, and his dark eyes clouded. “I'd have thought that was obvious,” he whispered, “I want you.”

Draco scoffed and turned to stare out of the window, no longer able to look at him. “You had your dick buried in Ginevra not twelve hours ago,” he said, coldly. “And I hardly think she's one to take betrayal lightly.”

“Betrayal,” Blaise repeated, weakly. “Is that what you think this is?”

Draco didn't turn around. “I don't know what this is, Blaise,” he said, his voice as flat and emotionless as he could muster without his Occlumency. “But whatever it is, I'm not interested.”

“Oh.”

Draco pretended he couldn't hear the deep well of heartbreak and disappointment contained in that one syllable. He pretended he couldn't hear the soft hitch in Blaise's breathing that meant he was crying. He pretended it didn't hurt him when he heard Blaise rise from his bed and walk on bare feet across the cold stone floor.

But when he heard Blaise close the door behind him, he couldn't pretend his heart hadn't broken all over again.


	2. Quidditch

** DECEMBER NINETEEN-NINETY-EIGHT **

“Hey, Draco.”

Draco didn't even look up when the petite red-head threw herself into the chair beside him. She'd obviously been at Quidditch practice, because she smelled of fresh, Highland air and winter frost and sweat. Draco hadn't gotten on a broom in nearly three years, but he was doing well pretending he didn't miss it, and he wouldn't let the annoyingly persistent Gryffindor Chaser change that.

“I've just been at Quidditch practice,” she continued, oblivious as usual to his surly mood and his stony silence. “And I was thinking you might like a Seekers' match? I've not played Seeker in a couple years, and no one in the school is even close to your standard. You'll probably kick my ass, but it'll be fun.”

“No.”

He didn't even have to look at her to know her normally bright, optimistic expression had faltered. He'd been trying for weeks to make that happen, and he felt a tiny flicker of bitter satisfaction. “What?”

“I said no. I don't fly.”

“Of course you fly. You're Draco Malfoy.”

“I. Don't. Fly,” he ground out between clenched teeth. Blaise had finally gotten the message and had left him alone for the past month. Ginny, on the other hand, had gone from passive to aggressively active in her campaign to be  _nice_ . She sat beside him at mealtimes. She partnered with him in lessons, volunteered to work with him on group projects, joined him when he studied in the library  _and_ when he studied in the private sitting room in the dormitory. He had been forced to study in his bedroom for weeks now just to avoid her. This evening, he had been pushed into coming to the library by a need for reference material; it had, clearly, been a mistake.

A small, pale hand shot out and grabbed his forearm, gripping it with more strength than a girl her size should rightly have. “Yes. You. Do,” she shot back, just as forcefully. “You fly, and you fly  _fucking well_ . Now get your arse up out of that chair. We are playing a Seekers' match.”

“I don't have my broom,” he countered.

Ginny reached into her pocket, pulled something out, and resized it with a wave of her wand. It was his Nimbus.

“Blaise gave it to me,” she said, smirking. But then her amber eyes hardened. “Even though you hurt him, he still cares.”

Draco flinched and looked away. If she knew the truth of what had happened, she would not be here playing nice and asking for a Seekers' match; she'd be stringing both him and Blaise up by their bollocks on the Keeper's hoops.

“I don't have flying robes, either.”

Ginny rolled her eyes and flicked her wand towards him. Mere seconds later, his school robes had been transformed into Slytherin Quidditch robes.

“Any other objections?” she asked, smugly.

“Yes,” he replied, just as smugly, “I don't fly and, as you can see, I'm busy.”

She gave his work a lazy once-over. “That's due next term. And you do fly, Draco, so I suggest you do so... Unless you're worried I'll wipe the floor with you?”

He was old enough and mature enough not to rise to her childish teasing. They both knew he was by far the superior Seeker, and he had no need to go outside at eight o'clock at night during a Scottish winter to prove it.

Which is why, ten minutes later, he found himself back on his broom. The freezing cold air whipped his cheeks, his eyes stung, his lungs burned, and he felt truly, vitally alive for the first time in years.

Of course, he won every match.

But when they finally touched back down on the pitch nearly three hours later, Ginny was windblown, shivering, and grinning from ear to ear.

“Told you you could fly,” she teased through chattering teeth, and he couldn't help but laugh with her.

Without thinking, he shrugged off his outer layer, despite being frozen to the bone himself, and wrapped it around the Gryffindor's shoulders. She smiled appreciatively and lightly kissed his cheek in thanks, linking her arm through his as they trudged, cold and exhausted, back to the school.

When his brain caught up to his actions, he wrote it off to himself as good manners. It was just a tiny drop in the ocean, really, when it came to the monumental lies he was telling himself on a daily basis.

When he carried both of their brooms, it was only the right thing to do.

When he insisted on walking her all the way to Gryffindor tower, it was just good manners.

When he kissed her cheek goodnight, it was merely how he'd been raised.

But when he found himself smiling and blushing as he headed back down towards his own dormitory in the dungeon, that was when he finally admitted that he was out of his depth.

~*~*~*~

Far from making her back off now that he had achieved her objective, the late-night Seekers' match seemed to have spurred on Ginny's determination to be friendly to him, though rarely in front of Blaise, who still wasn't talking to him.

He was halfway through writing an essay on the potential benefits of vampire venom when someone knocked on his bedroom door.

“Go away.”

The door swung open. “That's very rude,” a female voice admonished, and Draco jumped. Ginny was leaning lazily in his doorway wearing some indecently tight Muggle trousers and a thick, woollen coat she'd clearly stolen from Blaise.

“What in the name of Salazar are you doing here?”

“It's a Hogsmeade weekend. Aren't you coming?”

Draco raised his eyebrows at her. “You do know I'm currently on house arrest, yes?”

Her brow furrowed. “No, you're not. You're here.”

He laughed mirthlessly. “Same rules apply. I'm not allowed to leave the grounds.”

“Oh.”

Ginny shrugged off her coat and flung it carelessly over the back of a chair. “In that case, I guess I'm staying here,” she said, as she threw herself down beside him on the bed. “What are we studying?”

He stared at her, open-mouthed. “I'm sorry?”

She waved a hand airily. “No need to apologise. I wasn't that bothered about going anyway.” That hadn't been at all what he'd meant, but before he could object, she cut him off. “Oh! I've been having so much trouble with this essay. Would you mind if we worked on it together?”

She stole a quill and a roll of parchment from his bag, lay it out beside his on the bed, and began to write.

Draco was still frozen, staring at the red-headed woman incredulously as she wrote the first sentences of her potions homework in neat, curly handwriting, sprawled across his bed as if she'd been there a million times before.

She was on her second paragraph before he managed to splutter out a weak, “where's Blaise?”

She didn't even look up as she dipped her quill in the ink pot. “Diagon, I think, with some other Eighth Years. He's gone to buy Christmas presents. I gave my list to Hermione.”

“And he thinks you're in Hogsmeade with your friends, but instead you're here, in another man's bed,” Draco said, a little more sharply than he'd intended, but it was well-deserved. Blaise was worth far more than a girl who would find her way to the next available man any time he was out of the castle.

Ginny snorted. “In bed?” she replied, finally turning to look at him. Her face was all false innocence and surprise, and her tone dripped with sarcasm. “Why didn't you tell me? I'd have put down my quill.”

He forced himself to roll his eyes at her immaturity, even though a large part of him wanted to laugh. No matter how much he snapped and snarled at her, she bit back with wit and sarcasm that could rival his on even his best days, and she never seemed offended by his incivility. “You know exactly what I meant. Don't you think Blaise will be, at the very least, somewhat  _jealous_ ?”

Ginny's face softened in what very much looked like pity, though he couldn't fathom why. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I imagine he will be.”

Draco found that he didn't know quite how to respond to that. He was strangely reminded of Blaise's response when Draco had found himself waking up beside his ex-lover all those weeks ago. Draco had accused him of betraying Ginny, and his tone and expression when he responded had been eerily similar to Ginny's now.

Clearly not expecting a response, she turned back to her essay, and they spent the rest of the afternoon working in a surprisingly companionable silence, aside from the occasional question Ginny had about the assignment. She proved herself to be every bit as sharp and astute in her academics as she was in her conversation, and Draco very much doubted she had been having any trouble with the assignment at all, though he didn't have the nerve to call her out on it.

The sun had long since set when Draco realised Ginny had been quiet for an unusually long time. He folded up his finished essay and turned to ask her if she, too, was finished. Her head was pillowed on her folded arm, her soft lips were parted, her hair was fanned out across her parchment, and she was fast asleep.

“Ginny,” he whispered, as the image of her sleep-softened face tugged at something deep within him that he had no interest in exploring. “Ginny, wake up.”

When she didn't stir, he reached out to gently shake her, but she merely shifted to get more comfortable against his soft sheets. Unwilling to face Blaise should he return to find his girlfriend in Draco's bed, he hauled himself to his feet, shaking off the numbness in his limbs, and lifted her tiny frame into his arms. She stirred at this, and Draco tensed. He didn't want to explain her waking up cradled to his chest, but she nuzzled her cheek against him, took a deep breath, and relaxed like a ragdoll against him, as if sleeping in his arms were the most natural thing in the world. Draco remained frozen, unable to process exactly what was happening. He didn't know her well enough to judge if this was something normal for her – perhaps she regularly fell asleep and was carried to her bed by near-strangers, but somehow, he doubted that. The most rational, yet somehow equally  _irrational_ , explanation was that this was a one-off. Ginny wasn't the type to trust easily, but that would mean that she had chosen to trust  _him_ , and he didn't know quite how he felt about that.

It didn't matter, anyway. Blaise would be back soon, and Draco was more than happy to leave any explanation of the afternoon's activities to Ginny. He had no wish to be involved in anything that occurred between the two of them, despite Ginny's apparent determination to drag him into it – or, he supposed, to go behind Blaise's back, though she seemed to be making very little effort to hide her actions. What he couldn't fathom was why he kept letting her. Or why telling himself that he didn't want to be involved in anything that occurred between them felt like a lie.

He carried her out of his bedroom and settled her on the sofa in their small sitting room, where she huffed in her sleep but turned over to cuddle up to a pillow. He refused to allow himself to linger – or to acknowledge that his mind was currently describing the smallest Weasley as 'adorable' – but he permitted himself the small weakness of tucking her soft hair behind one ear.  _So she doesn't choke on it_ , he thought, in a poor attempt to justify the action. For a brief moment, he thought he saw her eyelids flicker but, thankfully, she remained as resolutely asleep as before.

“Sleep well, Gin,” he murmured, as he turned away. He didn't really know why he'd said it, but something about her was drawing him in even as he worked tirelessly – futilely – to put up walls between them.

As he shut his bedroom door behind him, he didn't see her eyes fly open.

~*~*~*~

“What are you doing for Christmas?”

Draco grit his teeth and tried to ignore the irritatingly festive red-head who had waltzed into the room wearing nothing but Blaise's offensively garish red, knitted jumper. It was clearly a Weasley special, and Draco couldn't understand why he would keep it, let alone  _wear_ the atrocity.

“Draco, it's rather rude to ignore me when I'm speaking to you.”

“Then stop speaking to me,” he suggested, nastily, as he pretended to read a particularly wordy section on Arabic Runes in a heavy, leather-bound tome he'd borrowed from the library.

Ginny huffed and threw herself down onto the sofa beside him, exposing a fair bit more of her soft, pale thighs than Draco was prepared for seeing. He turned his head away sharply and tried to focus on the words in front of him. “Or you could just answer the question.”

He slammed the book shut. He hadn't read a single word since Ginny had disappeared into Blaise's room over an hour ago, and now here she was, fresh out of his ex-boyfriend's bed, asking him about his plans for  _Christmas,_ of all things.

“Fine,” he said, raising his head to look at her and regretting it instantly. Her normally silk-smooth hair was mussed, and her lips were red and swollen. A purple bruise was coming up on her neck, and she looked happier and more relaxed than Draco had felt in years. He wanted to hate her for it; he  _always_ wanted to hate her for it, but he didn't. “What do you want to know?”

She looked at him as if she thought he was a bit slow. “What you're doing for Christmas,” she said, cocking her head at him and raising an eyebrow. “Are you okay, Draco? Did we forget the silencing charms or something?”

“No,” he snapped, irrationally bothered by the fact that she thought that would upset him. “And I'm not doing anything for Christmas. I'm not a  _Muggle_ . I celebrate  _Yule_ .”

“Okay, what are you doing for  _Yule_ ?”

Just once, he wished she'd rise to the bait, but she never did. She used to have a temper to match her fiery hair, willing to hex or shout down anyone who so much as looked at her wrong, but this year, no matter what he said, she remained unruffled. It was driving him absolutely mental, especially as he had witnessed her aim her infamous Bat-Bogey at many another student over the past three months. Fine, if she wouldn't play his game, he would play hers. He plastered a horrible, false smile on his face.

“Gee, thanks for asking, Gin,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “I have to tell you, I'm doing nothing for Yule, as I'm a convicted Death Eater on house arrest, with a father in Azkaban, a mother in St Mungo's, and a Manor that's currently still locked down by Aurors as a crime scene. What are you doing for Yule?”

To her credit, she didn't even flinch, but he could see that long-missing anger flickering in her hazel eyes. Finally, something he had said had gotten to her. “Oh,” she replied, her tone sickly-sweet, “I'm a filthy Muggle-lover, so I celebrate Christmas, not Yule. Blaise and I are going to spend the holidays in his London town house, and we had plans to invite you. But seeing as you'll want nothing to do with our  _filthy, Muggle_ ways, I'll let him know you're already all booked up.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, wrapped box which she threw at him with all the force of Hogwarts' star Chaser. “Merry Christmas.”

She stormed out of the room, slamming Blaise's bedroom door with such force that the painting above the mantle shook and its occupant awoke with a start.

Draco stared down at the rectangular package in his hands, neatly wrapped in silver paper with a delicate golden bow. She obviously wanted him to open it now, but he wouldn't give her the satisfaction. Instead, he sent it flying into his trunk with a careless flick of his wand; he would open it at  _Yule_ , when presents were supposed to be opened.


	3. Christmas

**JANUARY NINETEEN-NINETY-NINE**

“How was _Yule_?” Ginny asked, pointedly, when she and Blaise finally returned to Hogwarts late on the third of January.

Draco didn't even look up from his book. There was no way he was planning on admitting to her that he'd convinced his house-elves to smuggle liquor from his father's stores into the school and spent most of the holidays absolutely smashed. “Fine.”

“Did you open our present?”

Draco looked up reflexively.

Blaise hadn't directly addressed him in _months_.

A wave of guilt swept over him when he remembered the silver-wrapped gift that was still tucked away in his trunk. “No,” he admitted. “I forgot.”

The hurt that flickered across Blaise's face hit him like a physical blow. “It won't matter now, anyway,” he said, flatly, “it was kind of a time-limited thing.”

They were both wearing matching, green Weasley jumpers – Ginny's with a golden “G”, and Blaise's with a silver “B” – and matching, disappointed expressions. Draco had the abrupt, disorientating sensation of being reprimanded by his parents, and he felt his temper flare. He was an adult, and older than both of them. While they had been off playing happy families with some of the Wizarding World's most famous and revered, he had been trapped alone in a castle with nothing but four walls, a house elf, and too much Firewhisky.

“Well, then I guess it's good I didn't bother getting either of you anything,” he spat. “Now we're even, and you can leave me the fuck alone.”

Ginny's eyes flashed with anger, and her wand was pointed at him before he could blink. Even Blaise, who had seen him at his worst, seemed taken aback by the vitriol in his tone.

“You are scared and alone, and I get it,” she said, her even tone at odds with her furious expression. “None of us made it out of the war unscathed. But _nothing_ gives you the right to speak to us like that. You don't want us? Fine. We'll leave you the fuck alone.”

She grabbed Blaise's arm and pulled him close as she led them both into his bedroom, where the door closed behind them with an odd, painful finality.

He expected to feel victorious. After all, he'd been trying to avoid them all year, and now he finally had his wish. Instead, his chest felt hollow and heavy, and he had never felt so alone. Not in sixth year, when he'd felt the crushing weight of the Dark Lord's expectations bearing down on him. Not in seventh year, when he'd been unable to trust anyone, stuck in between saving his own skin and subtly protecting the rest of the students. Not even the past summer, stuck in just three of the Manor's rooms – the only ones cleared by the Aurors – with no one to talk to save for the house elves.

Frustrated with himself for his weakness, he stalked over to his trunk and threw it open. He might as well unwrap the damn present and see what it was that Blaise was so upset about. He vanished the paper with a flick of his wand, frowning when all it revealed was three envelopes and an empty wand box.

The first envelope was addressed to him in Blaise's handwriting, so he tore it open.

> _Dray,_
> 
> _I've always been terrible with words, so I hope these gifts can say what I can't._
> 
> _I need you to know, that night in October was not a betrayal of you or of Gin. She knows, and she understands. When you're ready, come find us and we will explain everything._
> 
> _I miss you._
> 
> _~B_

Tears burned his eyes, but Draco refused to let them fall. Blaise hadn't spoken to him in months, and no matter what the letter said, climbing into Draco's bed and telling him he still wanted him _was_ a betrayal of the girl he apparently loved. Draco had no intention of seeking them out – alone or together – for any kind of half-arsed explanation of the situation.

Absent-mindedly, he opened the second envelope. His entire body froze when he realised what was inside, and the tears he'd been fighting back spilled down his cheeks.

> _Dear Mr D L Malfoy,_
> 
> _Based on reports from Headmistress McGonagall and other Professors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, we hereby grant you permission for one (1) visitation with Lady Narcissa Black Malfoy at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies, to occur on Monday the twenty-first of December, Nineteen Ninety-Eight. Should you wish to accept, you will present yourself and this letter to the Welcome Desk at St. Mungo's at precisely nine a.m., and you will be permitted to remain at the hospital until four p.m._
> 
> _Hoping you are well,_
> 
> _Seraphine Ainsworth_
> 
> _Secretary to Head Auror G. Robards_

He reached for a nearby inkwell and launched it at the wall, rage and disappointment coursing through his veins.

He could have spent a whole day with his mother. A whole fucking day. And he'd been too arrogant, too selfish, too immature to open the stupid present and find out. Blaise and Ginny had cared enough about him to _know_ that he would want this. The day she'd given him the present, she'd asked him about Christmas, not because she didn't know he celebrated Yule, but because they had already made him arrangements for Yule, knowing that the day was sacred to him. And, instead, he had thrown it back in their faces.

Fuck, he was such a selfish bastard.

His tears fell hot and heavy onto the parchment, but the ink didn't smudge. Of course it didn't; the Auror department probably had all kinds of protective spells and enchantments on their paper. But how on earth had they – Draco froze. He knew exactly how they had managed this, though he had never imagined he would ever be important enough for such a thing. Ginny had asked Ron or Harry to do this for her. Ginny had approached one – or both – of his two childhood nemeses and somehow convinced them that he was worthy of this Christmas gift. And he had rejected it.

He hardly dared to open the third envelope. With trembling fingers, he slit it open and removed the parchment from inside.

> _Malfoy,_
> 
> _The following address has been added to your list of approved locations._
> 
> _Zabini Townhouse_
> 
> _11 Buckingham Gate_
> 
> _St. James' Park_
> 
> _London_
> 
> _You will find enclosed a Portkey which can be activated at any time between December 18, 1998 and December 31, 1998 to transport you to this address. Please ensure you return to Hogwarts prior to January 4_ _th_ _, 1999 by an approved means of transportation._
> 
> _Christmas is a time when no one should be alone._
> 
> _Trainee Auror H Potter_

Draco held the empty wand box in trembling hands. A Portkey. Ginny and Blaise had cared enough to not only arrange him a Yule visit with his mother, they had cared enough to add a Zabini home to the list of addresses where he was permitted to reside during his house arrest. They had done all of that for him, and he had thrown every last thing back in their faces. He had rejected Blaise and refused to hear him out, borne Ginny's honest attempts at friendship with little more than disdain. Worked harder all year at keeping them away than he ever had at fulfilling any of the Dark Lord's orders. And yet, time and time again, they came back and tried again, tried harder. No one had ever had that kind of loyalty or faith in him before. Not even his own family.

His father's love – if Draco could even call it love – had always been conditional on his behaviour, on upholding the Malfoy name and being a perfect Pureblood heir.

His mother's love for him was unconditional, he knew that; no matter what he did, he would always be her Dragon, just as she would always be his Mumma. But her faith and loyalty were conditional, and he had lost it. She had seen him warped and weakened by the Dark Lord, just as his father had been, and she had turned her back on both of them.

Severus has been a second father figure to him as a child, but they had allowed the Dark Lord to come between them, and now he was gone. Draco hadn't been permitted to attend the funeral, nor to pay his respects to the man he had once called “Uncle”.

But Blaise had never cared about his money or his name. Never been swayed by his bad attitude or his false bravado, nor by seeing his failures and weaknesses. He hadn't rejected Draco for taking the Mark, nor for his lack of loyalty to it.

And Ginny. Ginny had come in when he was at his worst. Seen him at his darkest, his weakest, his most dangerous. Watched him as he played the role of perfect Death Eater. Been on the wrong side of his tongue and his wand. And, despite that, she had never faltered in her kindness to him, even when she was raising hell. She was Gryffindor loyal all the way through, he had always known that, he had just never expected that it would be to _him_.

Finally, he reached for Blaise's letter.

_When you're ready, come find us and we will explain everything._

Shaking, with tears still running down his cheeks, he rose to his feet and made his way to Blaise's door. His fist hovered in the air, but he couldn't bring himself to knock. He was too weak, too scared. He was a coward.

A sob slipped out of his mouth, and he leaned forwards to rest his head against the smooth wood. All he knew right now was that he needed them. He was done pushing people away. Done acting like a selfish child. Done hurting the people he cared about. Done punishing himself.

“Blaise,” he whispered, afraid his voice would break if he spoke any louder. “It's Dray.”

Slowly, the door swung open.


	4. Forgiveness

** JANUARY NINETEEN-NINETY-NINE **

_A sob slipped out of his mouth, and he leaned forwards to rest his head against the smooth wood. All he knew right now was that he needed them. He was done pushing people away. Done acting like a selfish child. Done hurting the people he cared about. Done punishing himself._

_ “Blaise,” he whispered, afraid his voice would break if he spoke any louder. “It's Dray.” _

_Slowly, the door swung open._

Ginny stood in the doorway, eyes as red and puffy as Draco knew his must be, and he felt his heart break. She opened her arms and he threw himself into them, desperately needing the physical comfort he'd been denied for years. Her arms wound tightly around him, rubbing his back and stroking through his hair as he sobbed helplessly into her shoulder. His chest ached with sobs and with guilt for his behaviour; he didn't deserve their care or forgiveness. He didn't deserve to have Ginny being so unerringly _kind_ to him. He felt a warmth behind him as Blaise's strong arms wrapped around him, tucking him safely between them. Blaise's hands rubbed up and down his sides soothingly as he nuzzled his face against the back of Draco's neck.

“Shh, Dray,” he murmured, “it's okay now.” Hearing that tone from Blaise after so many years without it only made him sob harder, his lungs burning with a lack of oxygen.

Ginny dropped a soft kiss to his temple as she smoothed his hair back from his face. “Hey, now. Shhhh,” she whispered, as if to a child. The way his mother used to soothe him when he scraped his knee or woke up from a nightmare. _Salazar_ , he missed his Mumma. To know he could have seen her but his own selfish behaviour had lost him the chance tore at his heart like claws. She had been right to turn her back on him when she did; he had not been a worthy son to her. But from now on, he vowed he would be.

“I'm so sorry,” he choked out. “I'm so sorry for everything.” Apologising had almost become a reflexive habit since the war, but this was different. This apology was borne of soul-deep regret, and he meant it with every fibre of his being. He wanted to be worthy of their forgiveness. He wanted to be better, for them and for himself. He wanted to be worthy of _them_.

Blaise's warm lips found the soft skin behind his ear. “I forgive you, Dray,” he whispered. “It's not like I didn't know you were a bit of a prat.”

Draco let out a watery chuckle, and even Ginny was smiling. “Me, too,” she said, gently brushing away his tears with her thumb. “You made a lot of mistakes, but you're only human.” She dropped a careful kiss to his forehead. “Let's get some sleep, hmm? We can talk about it all in the morning.”

He was grateful for their forgiveness – he certainly didn't deserve it, not yet – but the thought of turning back around and leaving without any answers terrified him. He'd barely worked up the courage to come to them this time; he knew in the light of the morning, after spending the night alone, he would not have the strength to try again. He wanted to be a better person, he truly did, but he wasn't there yet.

“Of course,” he found himself saying, even as panic rose in his chest at the thought of being alone. “I'll see you in the morning.”

A flash of confusion passed over Ginny's face. “What do you mean?”

Behind him, Blaise tightened his arms. “Dray, you're not going anywhere. Get into bed.”

He stiffened. He didn't want to leave, no, but staying the night? “No, Blaise, I really should –”

Blaise pulled him from Ginny's arms and turned him around. His long fingers tilted Draco's face up, and he gazed down at him with a gentle expression. “Stay, please. We'll all wear pyjamas and you can sleep in the middle. Please, just stay.”

Draco had never been able to deny Blaise anything, not really, so he was bundled into a pair of too-big, silk pyjamas and tucked into the double bed that Ginny easily enlarged to fit all three of them. Ginny slipped in beside him, curling up to rest her head on his chest like she belonged there, and it felt so natural, so right, that Draco found himself wrapping his arm around her shoulders to pull her closer. She smelled like lavender and fresh air, and he couldn't help but nuzzle his face into her soft hair as they snuggled up together under the covers.

Blaise came back from the toilet, freezing in the doorway when he saw them, and Draco flushed guiltily. _Fuck_ , why couldn't he just keep his hands to himself? He tried to pull away, but Ginny clung to him with all the determination and strength of the Giant Squid.

“Blaise –”

But Blaise just crossed the room and climbed in on Draco's other side, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “You worry too much,” he murmured, as he flicked out the lights. Blaise pulled them both closer, wrapping an arm over Draco's stomach to rest on Ginny's hip. “Goodnight, loves.”

“Goodnight,” Ginny whispered back, but Draco was frozen between them. This was far, far too close to all those dangerous hopes that he had been unable to put back in their box since the start of term. Ginny was tucked into his chest, Blaise was calling them 'loves', and he was surrounded on both sides by people who, somehow, had come to mean far more to him than he had ever planned.

“I can hear you thinking,” Blaise whispered, and Draco flinched.

Immediately, Ginny's hand reached up to stroke along his collarbone and Blaise's free hand carded through his hair. “You need to sleep, Dray,” he said, quietly, “please, don't worry any more tonight. We'll both still be here in the morning.”

Draco couldn't find the words – or the courage – to explain that that wasn't what he was worried about, but they seemed to know, anyway.

The bedside light flickered back on, and Ginny propped her head up on her hand to look at him. “You're not going to sleep before we talk, are you?”

He shook his head. No, he would not be able to sleep with the all emotions and thoughts and worries that were flying through his mind at lightning speed.

Blaise's warm fingers trailed over his cheek. “You think too much, did you know that?” he murmured. “Worry too much, too.”

Despite the gentleness of his tone, Draco felt chastened. He'd been here less than an hour, and already he was interrupting their sleep and causing problems with his stupid anxieties.

“I'm sorry,” he muttered, flushing horribly and guilt tightened her tendrils around his heart.

Blaise pulled him into his chest and kissed his forehead. “No more apologies. You are forgiven, end of story.”

Draco didn't truly believe that, but he snuggled into Blaise's firm, strong body and allowed himself to relax. He was safe here, he always had been. Safe from his father, from other Purebloods, from other Slytherins, from the whole world and their expectations of who Draco, only heir to the Malfoy line, should be. With Blaise, he was always 'just Draco'. Right now, more than ever, he needed that.


End file.
